


Ripe

by ASignificantWhisper



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Masturbation, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 10:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16282487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: You've been looking for each other, haven't you?





	Ripe

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, it's me again! Two fics in the span of days? Who is she? Lol. Anyways.... I'm so pleased with the reception Fiercely Vigilant has gotten. Thank you all so much! :) 
> 
> This one is a little more dirtier, I think. I'm enjoying writing for Michael and taking on requests! This one came to me of my own accord, and of course it spawned a mind of its own just like the last. Michael is my muse. I hope you enjoy this one. 
> 
> I tried a fluffier version of Michael, really geared to please the reader. Warnings will be in the tags! Follow my Tumblr for updates, etc (wroteclassicaly.tumblr.com) and lemme know what you think about this one!? 
> 
> Enjoy!

Your fingertips draw pointless shapes that have meaning, yet result in nothing, all along the cool wall of the servant's quarters main hallway. You imagine it's a window, longing for temperature that is more than dank, icy, overly stuffy. Your body craves fresh air, your skin starving for it. You'd fall onto your knees in the dirt just to taste a drop of rain. Mallory passes you, a pressed smile that doesn't reach her eyes - connecting you two.

  
_She feels this. How it's lonely, how there's nothing, how maybe we should've died too._

  
When she passes you to clear the last of the dinner plates, you move on down the hall, unable to stand here any longer in fear that Mead will report you for being a useless shit pile. What else can you do? You've done all your chores - albeit not as well as the rest of your superior grays. Shit, if you can't even be a servant correctly then what are you here for? Why were you chosen to be a member here instead of simply perishing in a bomb - unnoticed, just like in your entire former life.

  
Feeling sorry for yourself is the only luxury you've got, so you permit it for a few seconds longer than usual, your moods having been plummeting since the arrival of Langdon, Cooperative leader, nearing six feet tall, and full of sex. Any idiot around this place can taste whatever he's trying to pass off. Just from him passing you in the barest of brushes you got these aches that seemed to lash violently at your flesh, making walking a daunting task. You'd be a total moron to think this connection you feel for him goes more than one way, let alone would it mean anything substantial- versus what he can get from anyone else. Okay, you're really kicking yourself now, better to shut off thoughts of Langdon to get through the night you wish to have to yourself.

  
It's not your night for dish duty, your other things done. Such a dutiful worker, Venable mocks you whenever she gets the chance. Oh well, this can be downtime for you for the first time in.... well, ever. With a small skip in your step you're on your way to the stairs, trying to mentally shake off the berating, which causes you to bump into your favorite person ever.

  
_Fuck me running...._ "Good evening, Ms. Mead." You give her a polite nod, itching to be out of her way.

  
The woman raises a dark brow, her pores seeping disgust towards looking at you. She shakes her head, swallows a few times and is giving you general commands that make you wonder if she's even a human being or not. You'd be entirely surprised if she is.

  
"One of the toilets is clogged. This shouldn't even be a problem, so why don't fix it before it becomes such."

  
You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, not going to even disagree, it's fruitless to say anything, but the woman of course takes it as a bite back.

  
"You'll do it now, you understand me?" Nope, she won't even use your first or last name.

  
_I'm just one of the meaningless body bags of bones left._

  
"Yes, ma'am." You stay still, not daring to dismiss yourself, a mere ant under her boot. If there should be any left. _They probably hold more value anyways._

  
Mead does shock you by looking you over, acknowledging you're a person, even if it's one she'd rather put a bullet in. And then she's leaving you the way you often are : alone. Taking stock in your shitty situation, you trudge up the stairs, taking in the candles forming shapes all around you, ones you'd love to connect. Why can't you just sink into these walls? After you cross the landing it's then that you realize Mead never directed you towards which room needed your attendance. 

  
"Great, fucking great." You let yourself spit in a heated breath, the candles seemingly feeding off it.

  
If you'd ask you exactly what came over you moments after this questioning no direction, you'd still never know. Your shoulders straighten suddenly, eyes follow doors that down the hallway, landing on a specific, heavy gem. It stands out amongst the brood, however the same thick wood guarding its inside contents. Your worn shoes carry you at a rapid pace, almost an electric excitement that you can taste on your tongue. Stopping in front of the door you let your knuckles hover, snipping along the polished material.

  
There's warmth, a heavy odor of it seeping around the hinges. Mead wouldn't have sent you here if you shouldn't go on in, right? No elite would be caught in a room that was more or less beneath them, not working. You should knock though. Manners, status, humanity, these things will always matter.

  
Before you can jump-back your doubts, your knuckle-bones are rasping, your legs slightly trembling as you wait for anything, anyone. There could be a trap, a punishment, a pissed off patron awaiting your very presence. But as seconds tick by to what you assume is minutes Mead would not like you to waste - it becomes clear that no one is going to answer, which means you can get your job done without obstacles. The heavy surface almost caves to you, a gentle push surprisingly gaining you access. You're quiet, afraid to even pant out a stuffed breath, back resting against the door once it closes behind you.

  
At least here you can relax a little. Blowing out a sigh, you wipe your palms down your sides, granting yourself notice of your surroundings. It looks more.... more lived in than any other rooms in this place you've cleaned. An air about it that screams your flesh into prickling goosebumps. You have to drink this in.

  
There's a little more candles adorning jutted out perches, from what little furniture is established. An oversized armchair centers across from the fire place, recently having been moved atop the blood red area rug, a steady fire crackling, whistling in pops as you pass by its orange glare is settled to the room's front. That all accompanies two either side nightstands : standard with the issued bed, one that you note is unmade. If Venable seen this shit.... Even the elites have to make sure their bed is made, or at least have it taken care of. Mead will probably stick this one on you.

  
_Unless.... fuck, should I go ahead and make it?_

  
No more fuel to the thought, you're beside the foot of the bed, doing your duty, hands peeling back ruffled olive green sheets to reveal a pleasant luxury.

  
_Is this fucking silk? You've got to be shitting me._

  
Like a naughty school girl in a fit of giggles, hand in the cookie jar, you feel as if you're engaging in some sinful stare-down with red silk, so soft and fine under your hands that you moan around a bite of panting breath. You aren't sure exactly which elite has managed to sneak this in, but you don't care. It feels cool, it's different, it's vibrant, it's so deliciously good. You pout in knowledge you have to wrap this up - timed task looming. You make gentle care to reunite both sets of fabric, hiding the red : a devilish secret, feather heavy.

  
Admiring your handiwork with a step back, you place your hands on your hips, nodding. It grates you to turn your back on such a pretty expense but you remember who and where you are, despite this room more comforting than this whole damn building. There's a scent nagging, one you didn't let surround you, almost as if it's been coiled in a corner, waiting to strike you, to spread. As if the air has invisible arms, you're clutching your collar, clothing too tight. Your brow is slick with sweat, chest trying to keep up with a sudden onset of galloping heartbeats.

  
_What. The. Ever. Loving. Fuck. Me._

  
Scenarios of you being poisoned through an air vent, attack you on all sides, though you know for certain that can't be it. How do you know? Why aren't you leaving here? Your body is crying out for something moments after you got hot touching a red sheet. _Something isn't right here._

  
A whole lot of things aren't. You grip your head, pulsing palm pounding against your forehead, your right arm propped to the wall beside you. It's not icy, hand numbing cold, not nothing. It's like it's swelling, alive underneath your very fingers, trying to encourage you. The whole damned room is fucking spinning, bass thumping under your heels.

 

Now you're dizzy, mouth agape, flooded with a fiery taste lashing at your tongue's tip.

  
You study what is closest to you, nearly bumping your hip. A desk with a silver laptop, fucking electricity, electric to the outside world in this hellhole haven, a few trinkets littered about, a long and heavy jacket so black in color you can't see anything but an outline against a cherry red desk chair. You're peeking, you know this.

 

Whoever this belongs to won't want you here. How can they leave things so carelessly unguarded?

  
Detaching yourself to round about to the middle of the room once more, you head for the connected en suite bathroom, forcing yourself to forget everything else, trying not to choke on your every dominated sense.

  
_I'll just get out of here. Then it'll be okay, it'll all be okay._

  
You find you do want to live, afterall, or die when and how _**you**_ choose.

  
The toilet is closed, flames licking their reflections into the porcelain lid. Quick in and out job, no big deal. You remember to breathe, even though you know you'll be sucker punched with the power. You aren't ready for your adrenaline to spike to a head as you lift the lid. You stumble back with a hollering whimper that draws the black snake to spill over, slithering past your shoes and away, teasing by you.

 

  
It leaves an oily path, leaving you into catching your ankle over another in a hasty retreat, sending you shoulder blades first into the ground. You're knocked breathless, vile air punching through your windpipes, hissing out past your lips. You feel frozen to the floor, sinking quick, a feast top. You have to move to get away from this set trap, from the animal you fear more than you feared the outside remains of the broken world. The new universe is colliding with the realigned world order, not siding with you.

  
"Jesus," you state, eruption of bashed limbs trying to rearrange their dignity.

  
"Hardly," A deep voice soaks into you like a fall rain, dousing your insides like a warm brandy. "but I _ **can**_ offer you salvation."

  
_Fuck me in every different direction, end me._

  
"Langdon! I'm sorry! Fuck, I didn't mean-" You break yourself, nearing fearful tears at cursing like this, casual with him. "I won't say fuck again." Your eyes widen, not ready for his direction to change.

  
He's chuckling, over top of where you lay on the bathroom floor. You didn't even hear it running. Were you that lost? Langdon is clad only in a white towel, which is stretched generously across his firmly defined hips. His toned arms hang by his side, fingers bare of their rings, twitching, clenching, then unclenching.

  
You wonder if he knows Mead sent you somewhere, purposely here? Does he know about the nasty snake? He seems a closed book you somehow have the guarded language to attempt translation to. You have no choice into your bowing urges, dress becoming rained on by the rivulets of water cascading down his soaken skin, between your legs dampening with every agonizing second that passes with him keeping you held here, without even touching you. The planes of his perfectly structured chest are covered in creamy - golden skin that isn't justified, not under this candlelight.

  
And that long hair, it's drenched, hanging over his defined shoulders, sticking to him, darker than its usual golden tint. His mouth is slick, his tongue gliding out to devour the drops of escaped moisture. His blue eyes could magnify the earth a thousand times over, irises resting atop dark thrones of pupils, that are dilating into adaption. His face is so perfectly crafted that you think humanity must be a ruse. He's the embodiment of sin, and you want to be defiled.

  
If your inner-monologue has a surround sound system, Langdon cues in, reaching a hand to you in a motion that is deliberately slow. He dips his fingers to reach for you in a way you've dreamt of him doing inside your body since before he even got here. You've needed someone like this one for your whole life. Blindingly coming **together** , are your wants. You still hesitate, afraid, shy.

  
 You have to face the after of this encounter. And it most likely will not benefit your position anymore than it already is. Perhaps plow it down a few pegs.

  
"I'm sorry that I didn't hear the water running. Mead informed me I had something to take care of in one of the rooms, so I, yeah. Deepest apologies, Sir." Your company line is sincere, you watch yourself take his hand, like two puzzle pieces finding each other. His skin gloves you, fits over you, fingers sliding through yours to clasp, sealed like they were made to judge, **together**.

  
_There's no way this is happening this way. I'm just wanting him. It's not more. It can't be more. He can't feel this. I'm fucking this whole thing up._

  
"And did she direct you towards a certain room, Miss Y/L/N?"

  
He's poker-unaffected, mildly amused, holding you slightly from being able to stand completely upright. A jolt of shame floods you, your cheeks burning up to match the rest of your skin. You shake your head as not to keep him waiting. And that is when he does it. He jerks you the rest of the distance between your two bodies, your uniform melting to his steadily hot skin.

  
He's warm from his shower. And the water is catching your clothing now. You bite your lower lip into your teeth, sinking, shredding a layer of skin. You're near eye-level with his naked chest, his nipples hardened at the new proximity, that is thrusting against the surrounding air. Your own peaks stiffen in response, burning underneath the flimsy cotton bra.

  
Christ you've never wanted any one person more. You're absolutely drunk on Langdon. Far more fucked now that you've gotten this high honor to see him natural. His eyeshadow is gone, all of his ensemble what you saw strung around his room. He radiates as much capturing rapture as he does when everyone sees him.  
You are so far gone you could beg for him to slit your throat and cum as he touches your neck.

  
_A sweet fucking death._

  
Langdon leads out your straying thinking, his thumb and index fingers pinching your chin to raise it to face him. His mouth is practically coercing you closer, his feet sounding on the tile that is wet from him, as he closes a gap, nose bumping yours. You can't take in air, you hurt, all aware of everything, how it feels, how it sounds, how it tastes. Your lips, a whine curling around your tongue. Your hands face the music, pausing mid-air, waiting for permission.

  
"So she told you....." His lips brush the corner of your mouth. " to come into my room....." they make a path down your chin to the other side. ".....and play with my things?"

  
Your flesh is singed, branded by him. You're close to crying out of want, desperation to rock onto your tip-toes and take.

  
"Hmm?" Langdon moves your chin, then releases it, his fingers dropping down your throat.

  
Your teeth are chattering, you're sure. You want to seize up, combust. You're rolling in a circle, existing with Langdon, held to him. Whatever is happening you have wanted since the stars were created. Fuck, maybe they were created for this moment?

  
You have to say something, just say it.

  
"I just felt like I should come in here. I meant no harm, I promise you. I just made your bed, I swear." Your eyes do gulp him in, doe-eyed.

  
He's kicked out by it. A strong control he can belt in and out like singing some ancient song in a foreign tongue. You'll never forget the built creation that occurs. Langdon pins you down with a look so strong that you're lost before you can conceive it. He kisses above your top lip, reciting his secret.

  
"Then can I play with you?"

  
You're dead and this is it. A drawn pain snaps your cunt so hard that you feel tears gather at your lash line. Langdon touches your cheek this time, cradling you, pushing his hips into you, and this is the first time you've ever felt a man like this before. He's hard, he's seeping warmth through the fluffy material of the bath towel. "Or how about this, Y/N? I give you permission to play with something of mine. Would you enjoy that?"

  
He speaks his seduction like the prayer it is. You don't care if you never touched a cock before, you'll do anything he asks of you. About to level onto your knees, Michael _tsks_ you, bringing your hands up to lay on his shoulders, his wet hair curtaining the gaps in your fingers. You gaze at one another, circling. He lingers a pet across your side, squeezing.

  
"Would you like to masturbate to me?" It's an outright question, a request, a demand, a curiosity all rolled into one.

  
You do choke on a gasp this time, eyes darting everywhere but at him. You're overpowered and you're avidly coming to terms with it. He must sense your inexperience, your lack of going after things like the others here. But here you are, they're not. This can't be a dream because you can feel him too much, he's beyond that realm.

  
"You'd kill every person here if I asked you to, if that meant I would give you what you've been thinking about, touching yourself to when you think no one can hear you. When you're sure no one can see you, hair down, thighs open, your sweet cunt needing more than you can provide."

  
"How do you-" You bite off, body going to lightly lax, speechless to answer what you would agree to in a heartbeat.

  
"It's my job to observe things, make sure they're so. To see who fits, to see who doesn't. And you, I can **fucking** taste you. Everywhere you go. You are so **ripe** , baby." He loses himself on that pet name, smirking through it.

  
"I don't know what to do." You fib.

  
Langdon tuts, stepping away, and you want to scream for him. His hardness is evident, straining. He's patient, gripping, rolling his head back across the bathroom door, licking his lips. "Don't you lie to me."

  
He offers the hand that leaves his dick, turning it palm-up, wiggling his fingers at you. He raises a brow, giving to you. Your choice, your option.

  
"Come on."

  
You're so hazed over with lust that you kudos yourself for making it to him, falling, gravity gone. Langdon scoops underneath your knees and brings you to deposit at the foot of his bed. That towel clings on this whole time, to its master. You unwind your grip from around Langdon's neck, waiting for him to speak. He instead, guides your hand to rip back his freshly made bed.

  
You watch him yank the silk free, uncaring of its fine quality, as if he has dozens more. He moves gracefully beside the fire place, fanning out the sheet in a pool of red. Shadows dance across it, glisten brightly. Langdon's fingers bunch around the towel's knot, wavering, snapping against. You heed his silent command to undress, first taking your twist down, kicking off your shoes, pulling off your other meaningless pieces more bravely than you anticipated.

  
You've finished by covering your intimate places, never seen by another man or woman, only you. Langdon gives you a look of finality and what keeps him hidden from you is gone. You can't not look. He's well made, as if he were made for you, to take you in every single way like no other. His cock is long, thick, shiny at the end, weighted, nestled between trim hips that pack pleasuring promises.

  
You dare close your eyes, hearing something similar to the wind before a storm. When your eyes are open, Langdon is in front of you, gripping your wrists. He isn't forcing you, isn't looking at you like you're a pathetic peasant for being this way, for being who you are. He shows a measured, powered patience. It steals your breath from your lungs, your arms, which are carrying his hands, they fall to bare you.

 

Langdon's forehead drops to your own, both of you sharing a deep intake of breath.

  
"My name is Michael." It's said as a rare information, a gift to you for showing him yourself, accepting.

  
You're astonished, mulling this all over, seeing him see you.

  
"Michael." You secure the word into your vocabulary. _Michael Langdon._

  
You step when he steps, letting him lead, keeping your pace till you've reached that outspread petal you can't wait to sink your naked skin in. You don't question, dropping in front of him like weights have anchored you. Your body is intensely rewarded with a silken-kissed massage. It's a glorious kind of fit that you take, sliding right into the middle, hand over your breast, skimming your belly till you're shaking. Michael is approving, letting you relish in this.

  
You have your moment and then some, the star of this union, a first for you, his homecoming. He's appreciative, gentle even, a possessiveness grating in undertones. "Start slow. Show me how you feel for me. I want to see how wet you are."

  
His words are tenfold magnitude, making your thighs quake, struggling to stay modest. You give, soaring so high you're not coming back, not unless it's to Michael Langdon. Maneuvering yourself along the blanket, you spread your legs apart, feet planted upright. A trail of your creamy arousal strings across your thighs, your folds noisily parting to reveal your pussy. You're more slippery wet than ever, you're entire cunt liquefied with want for him.

  
You're breathing huskily, altitude slimming as you tap a finger to your clit, pulling yourself back to show him everything that was made for him to pleasure, to feast on, to be inside, to take first, to fill. Michael's eyes are almost black, a sparkling blue giving them a ghostly season. You let yourself go and the tears do spill from your eyes this time. Your back arches up and down the sheet each thrust you make into your own hand, your palm cupping, sliding. He's your vivid picture, your mother fucking King.

  
Your pace picks up, your inhibitions eat themselves. Your hair is fanned out, fire a back drop. All is chaotically forgotten, your tongue licking at your mouth, that scent you felt before, the one you could taste, is Michael's, all around you. Caged proudly, your hear your fingers rudely stirring your pussy in sloppy wet noises, Michael encouraging you like the Devil on your shoulder, your moving hand a puppet at his bidding. He's to your side, zoned in.

  
You toss your head back into his forearm, moaning out at him being so close. _This is real, this is fucking real._ You're so fucking out of it that you're moving all over, squirming, struggling against a white hot current, treacherous in its trial. Michael doesn't let go, forcing you impossibly closer. You have _**everything**_.

  
His hair is starting to dry, falling over your chest, dragging across your nipples. He gets his right hand around your throat, tugging you to his mouth, meeting. It's firm and deep. It's too wet to stay without a break apart. Your first kiss.

  
He's moving his hard cock against your ass, hips pumping into you as you stroke your drenched cunt, letting it match him movement for movement. He's relentless in touch you, won't stop. His finger resting right in your mouth, others still stuck to your now sweat-tainted skin. You bite, suck the digit in between your teeth. He goes with you, helps you, all efforts in.

  
"You're such a good girl. Obeying me, wanting me. You are fucking **_made_** for me." Michael rasps out, kissing at your mouth as you collapse, nearly there, tickling edges like waves to a shore, drawing up inside.

  
It's gone too soon for you, hot spinning suspense. You gape, but Michael is between your legs, hair starting to look more and more golden under the light, wavy. He's fucked out, desperate, because of you.  He grips your knees.

  
"Can you hold out until I tell you to release?" He's interested, non-judgmental in his wonder.

  
"I want to come, Michael, please." You're a goner.

  
"I know you do, Y/N. But good girls can hold out, can't they? Unless you want to be downright fucking awful." He's teasing you, preferring his greedy option before continuing on. "Do you want to be my bad girl?"

  
He is what he is, you are what you are, all of every single thing. You collapse, drawing your legs up, sliding your ankles through that soft hair, softer than the silk, resting your legs on Michael's shoulders. He observes his prize, not uttering a single word. You can do nothing but shake, hope he likes this, and try to remember what breathing is. His breath is warm, blowing on you, testing.

  
You jump, his hand coming to rest down on your abdomen, threatening punishment if you move. "Just feel," He says.

  
You've no choice if you admit it to yourself, submitting over willingly, letting your thighs go slack atop his hard working muscles.

  
"That's it, that's my girl. Give it all up to me, I'll guide you back home."

  
"Michael...." You whimper, fisting his hair, desire fulfilled. 

  
He doesn't keep you waiting anymore, he descends, his tongue licking a straight stripe up your pussy, pushing your thick arousal to your clit, closing his lips around it to suck. You can't believe this is happening, this must be what heaven feels like, only it's not heaven, it's _Michael Langdon_. You tug, he licks, you twist, he sucks. It's lewd, you're loud, he's grinding his pelvis into the silk-is it satin too? - below, his pleasure by brought on by bringing you to yours. Your first time.

  
That wave is approaching you in a violent crash that has your legs shaking so bad you can hear the skin of your thighs slapping against his shoulders. You're warning, trying to tell.

  
"I'm gonna fucking come, please let me, Michael!" You plead out in a harsh cry.

  
Michael brings his face from you, his perfect jaw doused in your sweet juices. That throb is becoming too much for you to stay conscious. He gives your cunt a slap, making you arch back from the hit, and when you shift back forward, he thrusts three fingers up inside you, stretching you to a tipping point of pain and pleasure. He's curling them, moving them like he knows where to find what inside of you. He's speaking for the final time before you can bite into your fruit.

  
"I want my virgin to come for me. Show me what she's made of."

  
Your tightness engulfs him to a point he isn't sure even he can return from. It hurts, it feels better than you ever thought it could be, right. That's all it takes, a light lick over your clit, a whisper of **_"that's my very bad girl"_** a thrust of his fingers pressing in on a spot that you've only ever dreamed of discovering - and you're coming. You scream out, unguarded, unwrapped, legs tightening around his head, feeling a wash of that pleasure flood your cunt, folding over your vision, the ceiling spinning firelight visions of you and Michael above. You grip his hair so tight you think it might've come loose of its roots.

  
He's growling out, getting you through it, then he's up beside you, his sopping fingers covered in you - stroking his cock back and forth, back and forth, tilting your side to him. You're hot between your thighs, putty, one of his hands still holding onto your pussy as he jerks himself to you now, brows knitting together, almost innocent, crying out. His eyes glass over, widen, then he's coming down the side of your hip. The creamy white essence of this man has your eyes rolling back, a reuniting kiss you press into his lips, like you two are meeting after so long apart. It calms down, heartbeats still there, bouncing underneath sex-flushed skin, both of you wrapped up in one another.

  
"I'm glad you're finally home," Michael whispers.

  
**~*~**

  
Hours after you neglected your false task, Michael asked you to stay beside him. You couldn't refuse. You didn't care about Venable's 'rules' any longer. You'd found what you were searching for. You lay sleeping beside the warmth of the fire, wrapped in silk, one of Michael's coats covering the rest of you.

  
A knock at the door doesn't disturb you, just gets Michael up. He slides into a darkened robe, only cracking it to a surprised Ms. Mead.

 

"Langdon?"

  
"Ms. Mead, good evening. Thank you for making sure Miss Y/N came to see her duty through."

  
"I didn't send that girl here, she better be-"

  
"She is resting. You and Ms. Venable will leave us alone until I call on you, are we clear?"

  
"That girl -"

  
"Works too hard, don't you think? It's why I sent for her. To give her some time." Michael answers, hiding how at ease he feels having you finally by his side. It's true. You did need time, amongst other things. He'd give you this and more in this new world. He knew it was you from the moment he walked into this place. That piece he'd been made to search for, to see his missions through with him.

  
"Langdon, you are not authorized to command our workers here. She was to fix a problem that I assigned her to." Mead is growing angrier by the second, disgusted Langdon led her into thinking there was an issue. If only he could tell her, change her direction. But in due time she'd see where her programming connects to, _Langdon thinks._

 

He gives a lazy nod to her, a knowingly-wicked grin to follow. "Who says that the problem was not solved?" And leaves the shocked woman staring at the door, for him to come and huddle around your **ripe** form. 


End file.
